By Leanne Webber
No longer a maiden.
No more waking and staring into the morning Eastern light,
praying to Lakshmi, basking in her yellow luminescence.
No more bubble baths in my white, modern, mirrored cave
with lights dimmed, surrounded by incandescence
and echoes of taiko drums.
No more breathing in the fumes of hedonism, lingering,
whilst I balance precious nuggets of amethyst
on my third eye, brooding over my cosmic alignment to Persephone,
whether first degree or by proxy.
Connecting, not resisting the pull of the dark maiden goddess and her many manifestations.
I feel my extremities go cold, time to unplug and refill,
letting the steamy H²O envelope me until
I see the capillaries burst in my thighs,
my own natural thermostat activated,
whilst I ponder the significance of the silvery blueish hue
in the sclera of my eyes.
No more meditations, aspirations to fight for my sister(s), like Durga
on a mission by day, whilst I zone out after dusk,
smoking purple haze, making love with the lights on,
reading for pleasure, or for existential pain
to toughen up the skin of my endless pit of empathy.
No more going out or staying in at the drop of a hat,
significant and insignificant others to consider,
but knowing there's a line between where you end, and they begin.
Less discovery of new, yet old, familiar melodies
that make me feel the red light around me change its frequency
from scarlet to electric blue, my colour,
the vibration of my name, my essence.
No more hours of sobbing as I make full contact with my past
and anticipate the inevitable losses of my future.
Not ever fully appreciating the luxury of time on my side
to process in and process out.
Until it is too late.
Such are the privileges of maidenhood.